Living in Clip
by tsaintg
Summary: Leon goes from denial to anger to understanding to acceptance. Pre-slash Leon/D. There is no D in this at all. He will be a major player in the sequel. This story will be posted over the next couple weeks.
1. Chapter 1

Title: Living In Clip

Author: Thursday Saint Giles

Rating: PG-13 for Leon's language

Pairing: None. Leon centric, pre D/Leon

Spoilers: End of manga.

Summary: Leon goes from denial to anger to understanding to acceptance.

AN: This is all about Leon. Leon, Leon, Leon. Leon's journey to find D, and in the process, himself. The next part will be D/Leon, so if that's what you want, and you find Leon by himself boring, don't waste your time here, 'cause there's not going to be any action. Well, not any reciprocal action, anyway. I just think that before Leon could ever be with D, he'd need some personal growth…or at least to learn something about himself.

BTW, this is _not_ a song-fic. It is separated into chapters, and each begins with a few lyrics from certain songs. That is all.

_Sleep walking through the all-nite drug store,_

_Baptized in fluorescent light_

_I found religion in the greeting card aisle._

_Art may imitate life, but life imitates t.v._

_Cause you've been gone exactly two weeks…_

_Two weeks and three days._

_And let's just say that things look different now._

_Different in so many ways._

His dreams, when he remembered them, were rarely pleasant. He was never the sort to hang onto sleep, to linger in the space between sleeping and waking where dreams were never more real. He likes knowing things—facts—that can't be refuted. Since meeting D, his dreams had always been troubling because in some of them D can fly, or is immortal, or drinks blood, and he thinks, maybe that's not so far from the truth. Maybe his dreams are real, and what is real is just a dream. His thoughts were never so complicated before he met D.

So it was no surprise that when he found himself waking slowly, pushing up through a fog of drowsiness, he wished with every fibre of his being to escape the dream he'd just dreamt a little more quickly. _Flying boats_. Only D could make his subconscious come up with shit like that.

The more he stirred, the more he became aware of his surroundings; the sound of machines whirring and beeping, the sickly sterile smell of a hospital, and the pinch of the tape holding the IV to his arm. He fought the urge to groan. The guys at work would never let him live it down. He got hurt more in one year than most officers did in their entire career. He decided he'd blame D, but was going to have to come up with a reason, yet.

Thinking of D made him pause before opening his eyes. The last time he'd got hurt, D had made such a big fuss, and Chris had been so worried, with wide eyes full of tears. He didn't want to face tears and harsh words right now. He hurt _everywhere_. It wasn't a feeling he'd associate with having been shot. There was heavy soreness in every limb, every muscle, and every inch of him, inside and out. What the fuck had he been doing? He searched his memory, but all he could think of was the dream he'd just had. It wasn't too surprising, and not the first time he couldn't remember what had led up to an accident after the fact. What was more disturbing was that the dream wasn't leaving him.

Usually, he persistently ignored his dreams the few minutes after waking and they got the hint and left him the fuck alone. This dream wanted to be remembered, and fuck it all, he _didn't_ _want_ to remember this dream more than he'd ever wanted to not remember a dream before. Sure, there was the whole flying boat thing that was pissing him off, and making him mightily uncomfortable, but there was the look on D's face, right at the end of the dream. That look of utter sadness and loss, and the tears—_tears. _D didn't cry, it was some sort of unwritten rule of the universe. Animals don't talk, boats don't fly, and D doesn't cry any more than he shows any other genuine emotion. Oh, and then there was the fact that D had pushed him away, and that, more than anything else was disturbing Leon. And it was disturbing him because it _had_ disturbed him in the dream, to be pushed away, left behind. He didn't want to examine why. Which meant he wasn't going to open his eyes for awhile. He didn't feel like facing D just yet.

Leon had never liked hospitals. It should be no surprise that he'd been an active child, and as such, he'd had his fair share of scrapes, spills and breaks. From the time he was born til the time he hit puberty, he'd been in the hospital no less than eight times. And if that wasn't bad enough, he still remembered the day he'd been called home from college, coming to the hospital because his mother was in labour. No matter how he tried, Leon still couldn't separate the smell of the hospital from the memories of the day his mother died.

What was worse was that there was no one there to help him pass the time. Jill had visited once, but she was busy with work, and she'd only stayed long enough to break the news. Never looking at his face, clasping her hands in her lap, telling him that they had no clue where D had gone. That he hadn't left a trace of ever even having existed. Leon knew he shouldn't have been surprised, or disappointed.

But being alone in a hospital room, trying to distract himself from bad memories only seemed to leave him with unpleasant thoughts. He hadn't had a lot of time to come to terms with what had happened the night D disappeared, and he still couldn't say what was real and what was imagined, but he _knew_, soul deep, that he'd tried to follow D, and he hadn't been allowed.

Leon spent a lot of time staring blankly at the television, which played Family Feud, The Price is Right, and 100,000 Dollar Pyramid on a loop, twenty-four hours a day. The nurses were exasperated with him by the end of the first day they knew him, because he demanded, generally every fifteen minutes, that he be allowed to leave the hospital. No one seemed to understand the urgency. But then, no one had ever understood why he'd needed to get D. Hell, _he _didn't even understand it.

After that first night, Leon's dreaming just got worse. The dreams weren't outlandish or weird, and so often times Leon wasn't able to tell he was dreaming. They were incredibly real so that he could smell and feel and taste his surroundings as if he was really there. A lot of the dreams were so mundane, so simple, that it was like Leon was living a different life entirely in his sleep. Those dreams took place in the pet shop. D and Chris were there, and all the pets, and sometimes Leon and D fought with each other, and sometimes someone came for a pet, but most times they just did what they normally did—discussed their days over tea. Those dreams were bad enough, because in them, Leon thought everything was alright again, and when he woke up alone in the hospital room, it was like falling to Earth all over again.

There were other dreams, though, and he couldn't say if they were better or worse. In them he was constantly chasing D, whether through the corridors of the pet shop, through a dense and dark forest, or through unfamiliar and crowded streets, but in them all, D was always too far ahead for Leon to reach. Leon would call out to him, but D either didn't hear or didn't care to listen. And D never seemed to tire, even when Leon was winded and sore and couldn't go another step forward. That was the point when, as he collapsed to the ground, D would stop and turn and smirk before disappearing for good.

They were only dreams, he told himself. That wasn't how it would play in real life. Because he was, of course, going after D. He didn't think too much about what that would mean. It was easier to concentrate on the thought of finding D, and not the process of getting there, or the motivation behind Leon's now obsessive desire to find D. He could worry about that if—_when—_he found D. Right now he needed to get the hell out of the hospital.

His doctor had kept Leon pretty much high on pain-killers, and understandably so, as Leon's left leg was basically shattered, his left wrist and forearm broken, and he had several other breaks, sprains, dislocated joints and torn ligaments as well, not to mention innumerable flesh wounds and pulled muscles. The doctor said that a fall from such a height should have killed Leon, and he was lucky. Leon wasn't so sure. He was facing months of recovery time and physical therapy, and he was slowly going crazy from bed-rest. He'd_rather_ be dead.

After his long stay in the hospital, Leon was forced to take sick leave. He spent most of his days haunting Chinatown. It wasn't hard to get into the pet shop. The lock on the alley entrance was easy to pick, but oddly enough no vandals had come through. The place looked nearly like it had when D had occupied it. There was a fine layer of dust on everything, and no sounds of animals, no scent of tea, but if Leon sat for a very long time, and let his eyes become unfocused, it was almost as if nothing had changed.

The denizens of Chinatown all knew Leon, and knew of his friendship with D. They all regarded him with pity in their eyes now, and whispered as he passed on the street. Madame C visited him at his apartment to deliver some of her special fruit tarts, and when she'd gone, Leon made two cups of tea and sat out the tarts on his coffee table. He couldn't bring himself to eat them. Whenever Master Chu noticed Leon on the street, he would invite Leon into his restaurant for a free meal. Everyone was overly polite, and Leon couldn't take it, so after a few months, he stopped visiting Chinatown altogether, and thought it was for the best.

When he was allowed to return to work, the Chief kept Leon at his desk, pushing papers and taking calls. It was maddening, but Leon knew he was useless, anyway. All he could think about, even as he filled out dozens of forms, helped job applicants get ready for the academy, and listened to tips over the phone, was D. In the car on the way home, as he pushed himself through physical therapy (probably a lot harder than he should have), as he lay in his bed late at night, staring up at the ceiling and unable to sleep, thoughts of D never left Leon's mind.

The more Leon thought about what had happened, the easier it was to pretend it hadn't happened. _Not pretend, no_, he would think sternly. Because it _hadn't_ happened. He'd been confused, and there had been so much going on, and he _had_ fallen several hundred feet. He didn't know what had really taken place, but he was absolutely certain it did not have anything to do with magical boats. But even if he assured himself as much, it didn't explain_why_ D had gone. It was so sudden, so unexpected. Leon remembered something taking place with a man who looked rather a lot like D, and an explosion, but it was all very fuzzy and didn't tell Leon anything, didn't give him any reason for anything that followed. All he _could_ remember, and know for sure, was that D had seemed so _sad_ to be going. And that made the least amount of sense to Leon of all. Why did D go, if he didn't want to, and if Leon didn't want him to?

_That_ was why Leon felt this desperate need to find D. He wanted _answers_, and that was all. He just needed to know what had really happened to him, and why D had left, and he needed the proof, at last, that D was as crooked as Leon had been saying for_years_. That was all.

His body was taking forever, but it was slowly healing, casts coming off, limbs regaining feeling and the ability to function. His mind, however, and more importantly, his heart, seemed frozen in time, repeating, on loop, the thoughts and emotions he'd felt as he'd plummeted to the Earth.

Leon wasn't exactly sure where to head. The nearest Chinatown that he knew of was in San Francisco, but it seemed to Leon that D wouldn't have made such a dramatic exit if he was only moving a few hundred miles. So, not really knowing where to go, Leon had decided to just _go_, and see where he ended up. D would probably like that, probably say something stupid and mysterious about letting the road lead him to his destination, or some shit.

It was easier than he'd ever thought possible to walk away from his life. A letter of resignation left on the Chief's desk a few hours before the morning shift arrived, to avoid conflict; sub-leasing his apartment to a rookie cop looking for someplace cheap to stay so he could get out of his parents' house; packing what little belongings he owned that actually meant something to him and dumping the rest. And then it was just him, his car and the open road. Only it wasn't just that no one stood in his way, but that Leon didn't feel the least bit of anxiety or guilt about leaving behind everything he'd worked hard for.

When he thought about it, and he didn't often think at all, it was easy to rationalise. He was the youngest officer ever to be promoted to Detective in the LAPD, he'd graduated Mangum Cum Laude from college with a double major, and he'd done a lot of good during his career. And he was still only in his mid-twenties. He had plenty of time left to go back to his career. How long could it take to hunt down a guy like D? It took Leon a couple weeks before he realised that rhetorical questions could only get him in trouble.

The first stop was in Albuquerque, then onto Phoenix, then Houston. All three cities were large enough to get lost in, and Leon had spent days wandering through them looking for pet shops and perusing the Chinese areas for suspiciously pretty men. Of course he hadn't found anything, and honestly, he hadn't thought he would. Part of him wondered why he just wasn't hopping the first flight to China and searching there. He didn't really have an answer, but he still didn't head to the airport. Instead, he headed north.

Oklahoma, Nebraska, Washington, the Dakotas, Missouri, and each time Leon stopped in a new city he wasn't sure how he got there. When he stopped for the fifth time in twenty-four hours, Leon stared at himself in the mirror above the sink of a dingy bathroom, saw his reflection in the dim, flickering light, and didn't know himself. He saw his eyes bloodshot, his face drawn and he saw a real fuckhead, looking in—what state was he in now?—Colorado for D. Was there even a Chinatown in Colorado? He was betting that, even if there was, there wasn't a dock for flying ships. Colorado was landlocked, he was pretty sure. He wasn't so great with geography. But maybe that sorta thing didn't matter if the ship was flying…

Leon had started learning the rules of the universe.

1.) There is, invariably, a twenty-four hour diner in every town, where he can find, invariably, a waitress named Shirley, age unknown, with over processed curly blonde hair and too much eyeshadow, the very antithesis of D's mysterious allure.

2.) There are no real people, only echoes of echoes of shadows. Every experience related to him is a lie, every face he sees, a mask. There is no such thing as humanity. Suddenly, D's stories seem more real than the human beings Leon moves among every day.

3.) Time isn't linear, it isn't impermanent, either. Leon knows this now, with a desperate certainty. Knows that if he thought about it hard enough, and long enough, he could step into the past and fix things. But for all his fervent knowing, he is incapable of it.

Leon was well aware that he needed to sleep. He could also tell that a shower, shave and good meal were in order, but those…those could wait, because he also needed to find D so he could wring that perfect little neck. The fuck did D think? He could just run out like that and Leon wouldn't care? That he wouldn't hunt him down til the day he died?

It struck Leon that maybe that was _exactly_ what D had thought. Maybe he'd assumed that Leon would move on and just accept everything that had transpired that evening, and forget everything that had come before. If only it was that easy.

There was a devout Buddhist in Montana who seemed to know Leon better than he knew himself. "You have such anger in you," Marianne observed. "You have to let it go."

Leon scowled. He never bought into that when D was around. He hardly thought he'd change now that D had taken off. "Yeah, well, my anger is what keeps me going. It's what keeps me alive."

Marianne shook her head sadly. "No, it's what eats away inside of you. It's what doesn't let you _rest_."

But how could Leon explain that he simply couldn't rest. No matter how tired he'd become, and only three months into a journey that didn't have any end in sight, he couldn't stop. He couldn't even pause for a breath, because he might find himself too weak to continue. "I need it." It took Leon a second to realise that broken, helpless voice as his own.

"What could be so important to you?" She mused. "Do you even know why you search for this thing? Don't you know you'll be happier if you just let go? Sometimes loss is only the beginning of something else entirely."

"Yeah," Leon said doubtfully, not entirely paying attention to what she said.

"You cannot even be honest with yourself," She murmured.

"Excuse me?" Leon demanded, suddenly defensive. "I'm sorry, I sure as hell didn't come here to be lectured. I don't need your religion or your _sage_ advice."

Marianne did not even blink, her placid expression did not change, and in that she reminded Leon so much of D he wanted to grab her and shake her. She went to her desk and pulled out a journal bound in beads and filled with delicate cream coloured paper. "Maybe, then, you can learn from yourself," She said offering it to Leon.

"What's that supposed to mean?" Leon growled, not taking the book.

"This journey you're on, you don't even know why you make it. You focus on your anger and your hate, and eventually you will burn yourself out. Maybe you're not ready to face the truth, or maybe you honestly don't know. But I think you will find that keeping a journal will help you as you continue searching."

Leon glared at the journal, and some part of him saw the wisdom in what she was saying. Part of him was inclined to believe her, even if he didn't particularly want to keep a journal. But he'd seen and experienced so much in such a short space of time, and he'd never really thought about any of it. Avoidance was so easy, so much less painful.

"Please, this will suit no one but you, I assure you. Sometimes in writing we can understand things that are too abstract and imprecise in thought." She pressed the journal to his hand, and Leon took it, shoving it in his bag and never thinking about using it.

Chicago's Chinatown was distinctly different from the one Leon had known. At first he couldn't put his finger on it, but wandered the streets, staring at symbols he couldn't understand and trying to make sense of it. He spent an entire day simply meandering through the crowded streets, dodging into any store that had a Roman "D" anywhere in the lettering on their sign. It wasn't until he was leaving that he understood the difference. Here, without D's presence, this Chinatown held no mystery. Here the people were loud and obnoxious and everything they had was on sale, bare to the eyes.

Leon wondered if he'd missed something in Los Angeles, if maybe he'd moved too fast. Maybe he should have just slowed down enough to listen—really _listen—_to what D had been telling him. Now that he understood that, though, he couldn't remember any of the lessons D had attempted to teach. It was like out of D's presence his words evaporated and lost meaning.

In Chicago all D's stories couldn't seem less real. Chicago was dirty and shining and bright, and unicorns, mermaids and talking racoons didn't exist here. Sure, Leon had never believed in the first place…not entirely, that is. Sometimes there had been a niggling voice buried deep inside Leon that insisted there was no other explanation for the things he'd seen. But then, Leon was really good at coming up with rationalisations for just about everything. He'd always been proud of that before, told himself he was a man of logic, but now he wasn't so sure it was that great of a trait.

Leon left Chicago deep in thought, and didn't even realise it until he arrived in Bloomington, Indiana. He ran into a group of students in the campus museum, and they were, for whatever reason, intrigued by him. Since he was getting pretty low on cash, he took them up on their offer of dinner and a night at their apartment. He had forgotten how it was in college, the big ideas tossed around over dinner, the profound thoughts shared over a joint. He'd forgotten how eager he'd been to learn things. How open he'd been to life and experience before his mother died (too soon), before he became a cop (too young).

They ate in a small Greek restaurant near the campus. Leon had never had Greek before…well, other than the Gyros he occasionally bought from a vendor on the street corner outside his precinct building. The students laid before him appetizers of cheese on fire, lamb cooked to perfect tenderness and something like rice but smaller and softer, desserts of flaky pastry and sticky-sweet filling. It made Leon think of D, how before D he had never really had Chinese food, and how D delighted showing Leon new food, and having Leon enjoy it. He had liked watching Leon eat almost as much as he liked to eat desserts himself.

"So you just one morning decided to go all Kerouac?" One of the students, Jimmy, asked over the main course, obviously eager to hear Leon's story.

"Man, I think that's hot!" Steve said. "I'd totally do the same if my mom wouldn't skin me alive. 'Steven Marcus Arwen, I did not work two jobs to put you through school only to have you waste your time travelling cross-country!'" Steve shook his head and he and Jimmy shared a sympathetic glance.

Leon gave them a half-smile. All he could think was how much he wished _his_ mother was still around. Maybe she would have soothed him, maybe she would have stopped him from quitting his job and running away from his life in pursuit of something he might never find again. Something he didn't even know why he was chasing.

"Come on, Leon, tell us why!" Demanded Stacy, a girl with lots of curves, a deep tan and curly hair the same chocolate colour as her eyes.

"Um…well…I uh," He didn't know how to tell them the truth, knew they would only take it the wrong way, twist it all around. "There was this suspect of mine—"

"Dude, you were a cop?" Steve asked.

"Detective, actually, LAPD. Anyway, I never could prove anything, but I always knew something was up. He skipped town a couple months ago, put me in the hospital in the process. The force wasn't going to do anything about it, so I decided I'd do it myself," Leon explained. It wasn't quite the truth, it wasn't quite a lie. They didn't need to know the whole damn story.

"Wow, so you've gone all Lone Gunman," Stacy observed, wide-eyed and impressed.

"Dude, I didn't realise bounty hunters actually existed," Jimmy said.

It didn't seem fair to D to let them think of him as some hardened criminal (no matter how often Leon had tried to convince his colleagues of that in the past). For some reason, Leon wanted to explain better, but knew he should just leave it alone. How could these kids understand what he was after, when he didn't know, even?

That night they sat on the porch of the apartment drinking a six-pack. The night was blacker than black there, lit only inconsistently by the flickering of lightning bugs. Leon listened, really _listened_, though didn't contribute, as the housemates spoke of theology, and then moved on to speculate about magic and extraterrestrial life. Their words, the thickness of their voices, the heaviness of the alcohol in Leon's blood all had the effect of making Leon drowsy and imaginative, and he saw clearly in his head, the images their words invoked. Somehow, D was ever present throughout it all, something religious and supernatural all at once.

After Jimmy and Steve went to bed, Stacy took Leon by the hand and pulled him to her bedroom. It wasn't until she stood before him, lifting her shirt over her head, that Leon even understood exactly why he was looking for D.

"Sorry, I really can't," Leon had told her, in what he hoped was a gentle tone of voice, and he slept on the lumpy couch in the living room.

Well, maybe not really slept. He opened his bag and took out the journal, looking at it, considering for a moment, before turning to the first page.

_ So I guess Marianne maybe knew what she was talking about. Shit, this is awkward. So fine, D, you fucking win…I get it now. I hope somewhere you can see this. I get it now, all your stupid knowing smirks and sly expressions, and the "Darling Detective" shit. So I was a little slow. You couldn't just have said something? You had to take off instead? I bet you think you were strong, making some big sacrifice, pushing me away. Well I know better now, goddamnit. You were weak. That was fear and cowardice, not some grand noble gesture. Maybe you thought I couldn't ever admit I wanted you, maybe you thought I'd ruin it. But you never even gave me a fucking chance. And I could have done it right, damnit. And when I find you, because I will find you, you're going to know it. You're going to see how wrong you were. _

In the morning as Leon was preparing to leave, Steve and Jimmy pulled him aside and gave him a poorly wrapped package. Inside he found a Polaroid camera and several packs of film. "We know you're probably too busy to go through all the trouble of getting film developed, so this way you can still have a record of what you've seen." Stacy took a picture of the three of them together and Leon taped it to the last page of the journal, labelling beneath it their names, the date and location.

"Look me up, when you find what you're looking for," Stacy said, right before Leon drove off. "I'd like to see if it was worth it."

That, Leon knew, really remained to be seen.


	2. Chapter 2

iLife's a journey, not a destination,

_iLife's a journey, not a destination,_

_And you just can't tell_

_Just what tomorrow brings./i_

Leon spent a month travelling through Michigan, Ohio, Kentucky and West Virginia, not with the slightest expectation of seeing D in any of those states, but feeling it necessary, none-the-less. He wasn't disappointed. The people were hard-working and generous, more than Leon could have imagined people being. He didn't have to sleep in his car once the entire time, even though he was down to his last five hundred dollars. Every city he came to he found kind-hearted souls willing to allow him a night's rest in the guest bedroom.

By the middle of his sixth month on the road he had nearly finished the journal with the pictures in the back reaching to meet the writing from the front in the middle. He had pictures of people, places and experiences, and words that, as he read through them later, he saw were filled with incredible bitterness and anger toward D.

But as the time wore on, the entries had lost their hard edge, and Leon thought maybe he had, too. Things were starting to blur around him. The walls he'd built up after his mother died seemed nonexistent. There was no need for them here, where people didn't know his name, or the first thing about him, but welcomed him with open arms. They'd had loss and they'd known pain, the same as him, and yet here they were, and they seemed happier than he'd known people could be.

Leon went to Tennessee, where he spent two weeks in the mountains of Townsend fishing with a man named George who hadn't finished tenth grade, but had answers to questions Leon hadn't even known he had. He never explained to George what he was searching for, and George never asked, but seemed to know instinctively, on a very basic level.

"Lee," George would say (he generally addressed people by the first syllable of their name, whenever possible), "we all got this thing inside us that calls out to all the livin' things in this world o' ours. Some of 'em it tells us to hate, and some of 'em it tells us to befriend, and some of 'em it tells us to love. But there's one person out there it tells ya thatcha need. 'N not you, or that voice, or that other person has a say in it.

"'N some people are weak, and they ignore the voice, 'cause it's easier. But you, Lee, yer not a weak 'n. You know whatcha need, 'n you go after it. 'N some people might call ya stupid fer it, and some people might call ya a genius, but in the end, all that matters is thatcha _might be happy_. You might find whatcha lookin' fer. You might not, and ya might be miserable fer it. Butcha_ might find it_. An' if ya do, yer gonna be happier than most us other people."

Many days they spent on a lake high in the mountains, so far out Leon couldn't see the shore. Out there the water was deep and still, and they could sit for hours without a bite, or without exchanging a word. It was difficult to Leon to believe he was still in the country there, surrounded in the distance by thick forests and mountains peaks that stretched higher than the eye could see. It was so majestic, and alright, pretty and peaceful, that Leon temporarily forgot he was supposed to be pushing forward.

George's wife, Lynda, and their two children Sunny and Bobby, lived in a cabin about an hour away from the nearest town, and were always eager to hear Leon talk about life in a big city, so close to so many famous people. In the evenings they would eat the fish they'd caught, cooked to perfection by Lynda, and then they'd sit at the table long after they'd finished, trading stories.

Sometimes, when George went into town for supplies Leon would sit on the bed in the master bedroom while Lynda did her makeup, and just listen to what she had to tell him. She hadn't gone past seventh grade, and she possibly had more insight into the workings of life than her husband.

"So yer mad, huh Mister Leyon?" Lynda said (She had to put a "y" in everyone's name since there was one in hers—Geyorge, Leyon, and Day). She always called him Mister or Officer. For some reason Leon found it endearing rather than annoying. Perhaps because that, coupled with her always teasing tone made him feel like he was talking to D.

"Can ya tell me what good it's gonna do ya when ya find what yer lookin' fer? Will it help to go in screamin', demandin' answers, throwing curse words 'round? 'Cause it seems to me you went that route once, and look where it landed ya? Haven'tcha held onta it long enough?"

Leon didn't know about that. He didn't understand why everyone always said that being mad was such a bad thing. If he hadn't been so mad at D he never would have left Los Angeles in the first place. He never would have realised why he _needed_ D so desperately.

"Look, I can see in yer face ya don't agree with me. Well let me tell ya this, Mister Leyon, that boy yer lookin' fer, chances are he's pretty angry with himself over all this, too. Sure, maybe he thought he did what was best, but let me tell ya, just 'cause ya know something is best doesn't mean ya gotta like it."

"Damnit, Lynda, he couldn't have thought it was best!" Leon growled. "He shoulda trusted me."

"'N what reason hadja ever given 'em?" Lynda asked, arching a knowing brow. "Look 'er boy, we both know ya ain't the easiest person ta get close ta. Hell, I imagine it was worse then, an' with him, another _man_." She rolled her eyes. "As if shit like that even matters."

Leon opened his mouth to protest, but Lynda raised a hand and went on. "Listen, Mister, 'cause ya need ta hear this. Maybe that boy loved ya. Maybe he wished he could stay with ya, or take ya with 'em. But maybe he knew you wasn't ready. Maybe he din't have the strength ta try and force ya ta admit whatcha feelin'. I think it must take an awful lotta energy ta try and love _you_, Leyon. Didja think, when the time came, 'cause ya shoulda known it was a'coming, didja think he'd throw away everything and just hope ya wouldn't let 'em fall?"

Leon was almost sad to go. Bobby reminded him a lot of Chris, and Sunny had become infatuated with him, always hanging off his arm and remarking on how much she admired police officers. And Lynda was the mother he lost too early, George the older brother he always wished he had. When he left Lynda gave him a new journal she'd picked up in Cherokee, made cheaply, covered in neon dyed feathers, but he didn't mind, because she'd given it to him. The kids had pooled their allowance to buy him several new packs of film, and George had blushed a little when he shoved a couple hundred dollars into Leon's bag, telling him it was nothing.

The night after he left he slept in his car at a rest stop high in the Rockies and sat for a long time on the hood of his car, looking out at the starry night, thinking about what Lynda had said. He opened to the first page of his new journal and began to write.

_iSo maybe I shouldn't have been surprised. Damnit, I _was_ surprised. And hurt. Alright…so maybe you didn't think you could trust me. Maybe you thought I'd be scared of what we might have together. But if we're going to be honest, let's say that even if I had trusted you, and trusted myself to tell you what I really felt, you'd still have left me behind. /i _

In Savannah, Leon felt like he'd stepped into another world entirely. Almost immediately, he was descended upon by a wealthy socialite and self-appointed fag-hag. Leon tried to explain that he wasn't a fag, and even if he _had_ been, he wouldn't have been interested in being her latest project. But Mary-Louise was a force of nature, fake red curls piled high on her head, curvy form poured into dresses about five sizes too small, and looking every one of her fifty-two years, though she tried to cover it with her abundant makeup. Eventually Leon gave in, because she offered him a free room in her huge townhouse, and free entertainment. Even though he didn't particularly like the woman, they got along well enough (except for the time she'd attempted to dress him in leather and chain mail, but that's a story best left untold).

When Leon could manage to escape from Mary-Louise for any length of time, he'd go to the ocean. It was sultry and hot and sometimes unbearable in Georgia, but Leon could walk along the shore for hours, the waves at his feet deliciously cold, the breeze constant. For some reason, almost more than anything or any place else, the beach reminded Leon of D. He supposed it made sense…they had gone to the beach plenty of times in LA, and they'd even vacationed together to a beach. Now Leon could think of D without being angry. He could imagine D wearing his ridiculously fancy cheongsam to the beach in the sweltering heat, and laugh and shake his head at the memory.

Mary-Louise had a thing for animals, maybe even bigger than her thing for fags. She had dogs of all sizes and breeds, and cats in every colour, but her favourite was an impressive blue tipped Siamese cat by the name of Sarabelle who was given free reign in the house, and liked to leave her white hairs on Leon's black jeans when she rubbed against him. He didn't know how it happened, the sudden shift, that one day he was seeing a cat, and the next, as he stared pensively out the window into the lazy street below, he was rubbing a silken _human_ back.

Leon looked over hesitantly, horrified, and found a pale woman with glowing yellow almond eyes, and long, brilliant blue hair falling like water over her bare shoulders. She was dressed in clothing that made Leon think of a pornographic Princess Jasmine from the Disney movie, and she wore Sarabelle's expensive diamond collar around her neck like a choker. She smirked wickedly as Leon quickly snatched his hand away, and then she arched her back and _purred_.

Sarabelle had been wildly amused by Leon's reaction (there had been a lot of cursing, screaming and stamping about), and had remained curled up by his side til he calmed down. "I was _wondering_ how long it would take you," She finally managed, in an exotic accent, when he quieted (however briefly).

"What the hell is _that_ supposed to mean?" Leon demanded, scowling at her. "You're a fucking cat. I'm talking to a fucking cat. I've lost my fucking mind. Fuck." Sarabelle arched an amused brow, and the expression of superiority on her face was very reminiscent of that on her feline face. There was no mistaking that the woman and cat were one in the same.

"There is no need for such hostility, nor for the use of such extreme language—"

"_Fuck_."

"—I simply meant that we all noticed when you first arrived that you weren't like the others. That you had the potential to see us. That, in fact, you _did_ see us at times, but chose to ignore it. We wondered how long it would take before you acknowledged us," Sarabelle explained.

"We? Who are...?" Leon began uncertainly, but then shook his head vehemently, eyes wide. "Oh. Oh no. I'm not hearing this. I'm not _seeing_ this. You're all animals. Jesus, D really did a number on my head," Leon muttered, rubbing his fingers to his temples and closing his eyes, hoping and wishing that when he opened them, Sarabelle would be a cat again.

"She must have," Sarabelle said, and when Leon looked at her, she was pouting, a fetching expression for her already plump lips, "or you really _are_ a fag, if you're not interested in petting this."

"You're a fucking _cat_!" Leon shouted in disbelief. Though, he supposed she had a point, cause a few months ago, he wouldn't have cared _what_ she was, if she looked that fine and was interested in him. "Yeah…really fucked me up," He finally decided. "Can't you just…turn back, or something?"

"This isn't Harry Potter," Sarabelle said, sounding annoyed. That was the tone Leon was used to hearing from beautiful women, and it made him much more comfortable. "Once you learn to see us, you always shall."

"_Fuck_," Leon muttered, and decided he was leaving the next day.

Leaving the South was like waking up from a dream. Away from the oppressive heat, Leon felt his head became clearer, his thoughts more precise, and he could pretend that his last evening hadn't been spent in conversation with a cat. He realised, as should have been quite obvious, that he was really not going to find D anywhere in the United States. Of course, by this point, he had exactly fourteen dollars and eleven cents in the bank, so it would be a while before he could make any voyages across the ocean. He made his way North planning to stop for a few months to save up some cash.

_iCause with all the changes you've been through_

_It seems the stranger's always you_

_Alone again in some wicked little town._

_And when you've got no other choice,_

_You know you can follow my voice,_

_Through the dark twists and turns _

_Of this wicked little town./i_

The room in New York City was roughly the size of a small walk-in closet. There was just enough room for a futon mattress and his two bags. He'd sold his car when he first arrived, in desperate need of cash, and figuring he had no way to get it across the ocean, anyway. Besides his journals and clothing, he didn't have any belongings, and he didn't spend a lot of time in his room, so the size didn't matter. The people he was staying with, friends of Stacy's from her home town in upstate New York, were only charging him two hundred a month, so he couldn't complain.

His housemates—nine in all—were interesting, quirky people, sometimes nice, sometimes difficult, but always entertaining and enlightening, each in their own way. Adam, a student at NYU, got Leon a job as a security officer downtown, and for that, Leon was quite grateful. He worked late at night, which was fine with him, because he got home when everyone else was leaving for the day, meaning he had plenty of space and quiet to sleep and think.

_iI find myself thinking about the strangest things these days. I was on the subway today and it was surprisingly empty for a Saturday evening. Sometimes we ride it just for the air conditioning, and as today was over 80 degrees, that was a good enough excuse. I don't quite know how I came to be here—not physically, but mentally and emotionally. It's weird how I find pleasure in the simplest things—the feel of the cold plastic subway seat against my bare skin, the warm breeze from the bay as I walk home, the conversations late at night sitting on the fire escape. _

_Sometimes I feel like I'm changing, like I'm a different person completely. It's like I've been worn down, weak and pacified by the country as it passed before my eyes in a blur of colours and shapes, all beautiful and empty. See? What the hell is this shit I'm writing. Someone might think I was a poet._

_I never had any intention of changing, and certainly not to suit _you_…but I wonder what you would see in me now? Probably nothing different. You'd wrinkle your nose in distaste when I lit up a cigarette, or make a disparaging comment when I opened a beer can, or snap at me when I swore. All rough edges, still too painfully uncouth for you. The changes are all internal. /i_

He discovered things along his journeys, unlike those things he'd found before. Before, in his mad, desperate trek across the Western half of the states, he'd been too angry to note his surroundings. And in his meandering voyage through the mid-west states to the Eastern Shore, his musings had made him blind. Now, in New York, he began to notice things both surreal and perfect—a grouping of stone benches deep in the forest of Inwood, far off the path, where he could sit for hours watching the bay and beyond that, the city as the daylight grew dimmer, and the city lights grew brighter and multicoloured; a friendly little bar in Flushing, where, just like in Cheers, everyone knew his name; the cosy bookstore near Astor Place that had somehow managed to stay alive only a few blocks from Barnes and Noble; the largest public library _ever_ (or so it seemed) on Avenue of Americas, where Leon could sit for hours reading up on Chinese legends and not be disturbed.

Really, Leon had done more reading since arriving in New York than he had done since graduating college, and willingly. The more he read, the more he found himself enjoying it. It was awkward and a little uncomfortable—this process of finding himself. It hurt some, thinking of how shut off he'd been before, how he may have hurt Chris by being so distant, and how he definitely should have clued in to his feelings for D a long time ago. But it made him angry at times, too, this changing and adapting, like he was giving up something he'd taken a long time to build, this tough persona.

On days when he didn't have to work later, or when he simply was too wired to sleep, Leon wandered the city. There were plenty things to do for free, and he spent his time in Central Park, the Met, or sometimes heading down to Chinatown with Ion, where they'd buy cheap dumplings and cakes and eat them in Washington Park.

Ion was clever and had a quiet sense of humour. He was studying at Julliard, and he wrote music like it was a second language, and beautifully, too. Leon wondered what was wrong with himself, when, the more time he spent with Ion, the more he was certain he could love him, if it wasn't for D. And Ion would smile at Leon gently, with lazy, sloping eyes, like he knew just what Leon was thinking, and Leon almost wished Ion would ask him to stay.

Kara, the house pet, teased Leon mercilessly when he began to grow melancholy, and she reminded Leon a great deal of Jill. Kara was a Dalmation, and it was the oddest thing to see her as a human, with spots all over her fair skin that made Leon think of that chick on Star Trek. She was stately in appearance, though, dressed in a tight black dress and beaded sandals. She was wickedly funny, though, and loved having a companion to talk to. And talk to him she did, while the others were around, and she was curled up with her head in someone's lap (that was the oddest thing to see, and Leon realised now that D had often seen that same thing in his Petshop, when the pets had climbed all over Leon).

"Oh, I'm Leon," She would say, her voice low and dragging (imitating what he did not know—she was more in touch with pop culture than he'd ever cared to be, from laying around the apartment all day watching television), "I'm so depressed and angst-y, I can't ever have fun, or laugh, because then you might actually think I'm my age and not some crotchety eighty-year old man with a stick up his ass the size of the River…" And then she'd crack up laughing, and clap herself on the back for being so punny, and Leon would roll his eyes, and none of his housemates would know why.

Every Sunday, Leon spent with Chris. It was a little odd at first, hearing Chris speak out loud—another thing that made Leon feeling absurdly guilty, like he'd taken something away from Chris. Like he and D both had, and poor Chris was left to suffer the consequences of Leon and D's oh-so-tragic love (Leon had to roll his eyes, so that his use of the word 'love' was somehow okay). Chris liked going to the Bronx Zoo, or the Museum of Natural History, and lots of times they'd get ice cream cones and sit near the Alice in Wonderland statue in Central Park and just talk. Chris generally did most of the talking, and eagerly, animatedly so, telling Leon about what he was doing in school, or about what new game his 'father' had got him for his PS2 (oh, how D would have disapproved), or about the bratty girl next door who was nothing like Pon-chan.

Sometimes, though, Chris would grow despondent, eyes wide and on the verge of tears, but he never cried anymore. "Why'd he leave?" Chris would ask, in the most pitifully lost tone of voice, and Leon would feel inside himself an empty, gaping chasm, a feeling of sadness so intense, he feared it would never go away, not fully. He never could bring himself to say to Chris that it was probably his, Leon's, fault D had gone.

"I'll find him, kid," Leon promised, though he wasn't sure of anything anymore. Life was an uncertainty. And then Leon would hug Chris around his shoulders, and try and bring himself to say to Chris that he would always be there for him, but even with the changes he'd gone through, his tongue wouldn't allow the words to slip free.

When the day of Leon's departure flight arrived, his housemates threw him a going away party and drove him to the airport where he was to meet his Aunt, Uncle and Chris. Ion helped him carry his bags to the curb side, and then dropped the bag to grab Leon's hand. Ion's hand was tiny and cold in Leon's grip, just as Leon imagined D's might be. Ion had to tilt his head back to look at Leon, and his chin length dark hair fell out of his eyes as he did so. "Stay," Ion said, his voice thick and soft and oh-so-enticing.

In that moment, Leon felt physically ill for ever thinking this could be what he wanted. Part of him thought he should give in, wanted to hurt D as badly as D had hurt him. But he knew, with a wise awareness he'd hadn't possessed before that he only wanted to hurt D so much because he cared so much for D. Anything else would pale in comparison, and he'd only be left bitter and unhappy.

When Chris approached Leon within, he seemed to know he might not see Leon again for a long time. Leon knew then it was better he hadn't promised to always be around. He couldn't bear to lie to Chris. He couldn't bear to betray the deep, unassuming trust Chris had given him. So Leon let Chris hug him around the waist for a very long time, and ruffled Chris' hair affectionately. Then, seized by some unknown force, Leon knelt down to Chris' level and hugged him back with equal intensity, and smelled the place where Chris' neck met shoulder, where blonde hair (the same colour and texture as Leon's own) tickled Leon's cheek, and murmured, "Love you, buddy." He could have sworn he heard the words repeated back to him in his head.


	3. Chapter 3

AN: One more chapter after this, which will be posted shortly, then I'll start posting the first of two alternate sequels. I had two ideas and couldn't decide between them, so I'm doing both.

Also, I'm never going to be that person who says "If I don't get X amount of reviews, I'm not posting the chapter." Holding a story ransom like that is just silly. But I will say that it makes me very happy to get reviews. I get all these emails saying that my stories or my penname have been favourited, but then no reviews. I should be happy just to know you guys have favourited me, and I am, but if it isn't asking too much, could I get a few words in response, to?

Anyway, enjoy the show!

Chapter 3

Leon made a winding trek north, then east, then southwest, visiting Stonehenge on the way, since he seemed like something one

Leon made a winding trek north, then east, then southwest, visiting Stonehenge on the way, since he seemed like something one should do while in England, and besides, it would be just like D to be hanging out someplace weird like that. There was no D in Stonehenge, but Leon found himself sidetracked by the Salisbury Plains for a full week,  
entranced by the haunting, eerie moors, and the quiet, lazy towns and the pleasant people he found there.

He spent a day wandering through the Salisbury Cathedral, climbing the stone spiral stairs, then the wooden ones, and finally the ladders, until he reached the highest place possible and could look out for miles, until the fog swallowed up the horizon. He thought of how his mother would have loved this, how she'd always wanted to travel, and the thought of her gentle smile brought him both pleasure and sharp, bitter pain, and inexplicably, Leon found himself crying to himself high above the world, watching the ground far below blur with tears. He'd fallen much further when D had let him go…Leon rushed down the stairs and left Salisbury at once, deciding he very much hated heights.

_After a couple months, I stopped remembering my dreams. I don't know why it happened, if it is normal, or if it has something to do with the trauma to my head from that fall, or if it's something different, like I've always tried so hard not to remember that my subconscious keeps the dreams buried now. Anyway, I don't know why it happened, but it was nice. Last night, I had very strange dreams, and I remembered every moment of them. We had gone to England together, and you delighted in showing me new places and calling me ignorant for not understanding what you found so fascinating about them. _

_When we came to Salisbury, you said you were going to reopen your pet shop, and set it up at the top of the Cathedral. You sold my mother a bird, you told her it would let her fly, and I tried to warn her not to trust you. But she was so eager, so full of wonder, and she didn't listen. And when she tried, she fell, and died. In my dream, it was  
like losing her all over again, the absolute heart-wrenching grief, the feeling like there was a gaping hole left in my chest where my heart used to be, and it would never get better._

_When I woke up, the feeling remained, though not only for my mother. I long for you, D. I…I feel an emptiness beside me all the time, where you're supposed to be, where you belong. Can you believe I'm saying these things? I hardly can, but it isn't worth denying anymore. _

_You're not here, and maybe if I had said something, done something, given the slightest hint that I needed you, you would have stayed. At the same time, I can't stand the thought of you. Was it necessary for you to leave like you did? Were you worried I wouldn't let you go, that I would cling, and beg? I nearly did, but it didn't move you. _

_Will it be any different if I—when I find you? Will you let me in, will you give me a chance to tell you all the things I was too dumb to say before, or will you only leave me again? I don't know if I could take that. I'd rather not find you at all._

Finally Leon reached London and let out a sigh of relief. This was more like what he was used to. So similar to New York in many ways, but still entirely foreign. Thomas, one of Leon's flatmates from New York, had a best friend studying abroad in London, and had contacted him ahead of time. The boy, Jonathan, was never in the apartment anyway, and told Leon when he arrived, that he was welcome to stay as long as he liked, that there was plenty of alcohol in the fridge, that Lola across the hall was an easy lay, and that his cell number was on the counter, and he might be back next Tuesday, or maybe next month, but all the bills were covered, so don't worry.

It occurred to Leon, as he wandered the streets of London, that not every foreign country was going to be comprised of English-speaking people. Now, upon realising this, Leon also realised he should have considered this a lot sooner, especially considering that, were he to be absolutely honest with himself, he imagined this entire exercise  
would eventually land him in China, and he didn't know the first word in Chinese (he could make a few assumptions though, based on a few phrases he'd heard D say time and time again during their association). Leon decided that while it was all good and fine to be optimistic and hope to run into D trying to sell kittens out of a basket in Covent Garden, he might actually try learning a thing or two about D's native tongue (and maybe he shouldn't think too much about D's tongue, since he hadn't had sex in a really long time, and this new found conscience thing probably wasn't going to let him get any  
until he found D).

Leon had saved up a few thousand dollars in New York, and he didn't really have a visa to be working in a foreign country, but he was scandalised (though maybe he shouldn't have been, given his past profession, and knowing how often and creatively people liked to break the law) at how easy it was for him to get a job under the table.  
Lola, it seemed, had more than one talent, and soon Leon was working as a bouncer at the strip club where she worked in SoHo. Leon hadn't planned on staying long enough to need a job, but once he'd decided to learn a little Chinese, he'd went through with the plan.

The language school he found wasn't the highest class in the city, but Leon could afford it, so he made do. For six weeks, Leon studied Chinese from eleven in the morning until eight in the evening, then worked at the club from nine until three the next morning. He didn't get a lot of sleep this way, but he didn't particularly mind.

The apartment was at the north end of Piccadilly, so he spent most of his down time in nearby Chinatown, or Trafalgar Square. Lola liked to pretend she was an art critic, so sometimes she dragged him to the National Gallery, but when Jonathan was actually in town, he and Leon hung around the house, or a nearby pub. Though he couldn't say why, since Jonathan was neither talkative, nor particularly friendly, nor overly interesting, Leon got along with him terrifically. He supposed it was probably because Jonathan was none of those things, and didn't expect anything of Leon. And Jonathan loved football, so he and Leon could moan over what they thought of this British concept of "football."

Chinese New Year was celebrated on Gerrard Street in a huge, colourful celebration, and Leon let himself be lost in the crowd and the scents and the mysterious sights that made him long for D, yet satisfied him, at the same time.

By the time Leon left London, he had a passing understanding of basic Chinese, and understood several phrases that would help him get along in the country. He bought language CDs from his learning institute before leaving, to continue studying while he travelled, and he stuck to it, listening to his headset as he walked through Spain,  
France and Germany, and everyplace in between, finding it surprisingly easy, and not at all lonely, as there were always other backpackers he ran across.

The anniversary of his first year on the road was spent in the Black Forrest in a small, quaint village that made Leon think of Hansel and Gretel. He'd stopped smoking a few months before, he'd suddenly become disgusted by it, but he still drank, and so he did as he spent the evening staring up at a pitch black sky filled with brilliant points of light winking at him. He avoided thinking about D at all, and was very proud of himself.

Leon learned how to ski during a week in the Alps. Ion, Jonathan, Stacy and Thomas had rented a cabin for Spring Break and invited him to join them. Every morning, Leon got up at the break of dawn and went cross-country skiing from the lodge to the ski lifts, then spent hours on the slopes. He came home every evening, well after dark, exhilarated and happier than he'd been in well over a year, and would drink hot chocolate with rum and sit in the hot tub.

Wandering through the ruins in of the ancient people of Greece, Leon found works of art etched in stone, long forgotten. He saw sculptures of goddesses and heroes, and men engaged in carnal acts that Leon could now look at in appreciation of the art, rather than sneering at the subject matter. He stood on cliffs high above the water, watching the waves crash so far below they were soundless, felt the moist, gentle wind from the Mediterranean sift through his hair (he hadn't cut his hair since having left LA, and shortest strands now brushed his shoulders, the rest falling halfway down his back).

Leon spent more time in Italy than he probably should have, but he was seduced by the place, the dazzling sites, some of the most pleasant people he'd ever met, and food and drink everywhere and so cheap. As he hiked through the Alps, through flowered fields filled with cows, past a rifugio where he spent the evening, full to the bursting on  
homemade food and in a small but comfortable bed, with the sounds of a storm outside.

As he headed south, he bought a bike and began travelling along the steep coastline. In Naples Leon met a man named Marco who had more money than he needed, and delighted in spending it on other people. Marco was younger than Leon, and loved the nightlife, and each night they were in a different club, Marco surrounded by beautiful women, and more than willing to share, but Leon was content on his own (a concept before unreal to him, and when he realised, it had been quite a shock, to be sure).

Everything was lazy, and beautiful and relaxed, and for a brief time, Leon forgot he was supposed to be searching for anything, drowsing peacefully on Marco's private beach, spending a day sampling the wines of a nearby vineyard, lazy afternoons at the Piazza Gesù Nuovo. But after three weeks of overindulgence, Leon knew it was time to move on.

_It gets dark later with every day that passes and sunsets are the same in every country, every evening. Night is when I miss you most. In daylight there's so much to see and accomplish. Keep pushing forward, searching, and living. But at night it all slows down, colours bleed away; golden to purple to black and I'm left thinking how dull it was in comparison to you. I can see a million beautiful things in a single afternoon, but none  
of them touch the cold, perfect beauty of you. I find mysterious people and places everywhere I travel, but they are too easily solved ,or no where near as intriguing as you. _

_If for no other reason, I need to find you so I can understand you. I need to pin you down, and see what makes you work…_

_Are you a demon, or a god, or a wizard? I don't understand._

_There are things I saw you do, or, at least, I thought I saw…I'm no longer sure. But animals talk to me, D. That has to mean it was real, all those things you said. The dragons and mermaids and so many other magical things that shouldn't exist, that have no place in my reality—like you. But you made a place for yourself, didn't you? You  
managed to worm your way beneath my defences, and I didn't even know you were trying. And you've turned my world upside down._

_As I travel through country after country, I feel lonely, but I'm aware of perfection in imperfection I find around me, I'm astounded by the beauty in the simplest of things, and the brief moments of contentment that flair up inside my on a particularly nice day, or when I see a perfectly shaped flower, or when the scent of the ocean is brought to me on a breeze. _

_And I don't mind so much, anymore, that I've changed a little. I don't resent so much being forced to open up to new possibilities, new ways of thinking. I can admit I wasn't healthy before, the way I lived my life. It was so empty before I met you—drinking, smoking, fucking, married to my job. Jesus, if I'd known when I was twenty-one that I'd end up retiring before I was thirty, I probably would have shot myself.  
_

In Egypt, Leon strolled through busy streets, found heady scents not too unlike those in Chinatown, and wonders just as great. He wasn't at all surprised when he discovered the "woman" he met while visiting the pyramids was actually a Sphinx (and later realised he should have known right off the bat, since everything she said was a riddle or a question, which proved for a very difficult conversation indeed). He'd stopped being surprised that he could see animals as humans months ago. He should have known it would only be a matter of time before he started meeting mystical beasts he'd previously thought hadn't really existed.

_I wonder what you're doing  
In the night out there.  
Is a sad summer breath tangled in your hair?  
Does it take you back?  
Is the vision intense?_

After his brief sojourn to Africa, Leon returned to Europe, spending three months travelling through Turkey, Bulgaria, Romania, Hungary and the Czech Republic. Every place he had visited was a unique experience, full of new faces, cuisines and customs, and of course, people to give Leon advice sage or annoying, asked for or not. He'd  
come across references to D (or his ancestors) in the strangest places—a half-dozen hieroglyphs scattered through different pyramids; a tapestry hung in a famous gallery; mention of a Chinese nature spirit in a framed manuscript; or, in Rome, an actual temple,  
half-crumbling and mostly forgotten. Leon couldn't help but wonder how many of those were his D, though the items in colour never depicted the god with two different coloured eyes. Leon got the impression that D was much more low-key than his ancestors had been, if Sofu D and his son were any indication.

By month twenty-one, Leon had made his way north through the Ukraine and Poland to Norway, and was at once entranced by the location. At first he'd been taken in by the amazing landscape. He spent several days in the south, hiking and kayaking, and meeting new people, but eventually made his way further north, exploring forests, cruising along fjords. People he met were all very physical, and Leon felt truly alive for the first time in well over a year. Though he'd done a great deal of walking through his travelling, and he hadn't been lazy by any means, he'd been nowhere near as active as he'd been when he was a cop. As a cop, he was always in action, whether chasing down  
a suspect, struggling with a criminal, or simply working out with his colleagues. Now he learned a true appreciation for soccer, and spent the evenings in bars with the men he played alongside, where he'd drink rich, warm beer, and listen to the local gossip like he'd lived there his entire life.

The history and mythology of the land were fascinating, and Leon took a break from his Chinese (which he'd been learning fairly well, considering that he'd been teaching himself) to learn a little Norwegian. He did passably well, able to read enough to understand the books he'd been interested in, but had to keep a dictionary by him and used it frequently. He'd stopped being bothered by his interest in reading several months before. He didn't quite understand it, because even in school he'd hated when he'd been given reading assignments. He supposed it was simply because he was now reading  
things he wanted to read that made the difference. He didn't want to consider that he might just be a different person.

He stayed in a quiet inn, in a quiet town in the north, where the days were brief, brilliant shimmering moments, and the nights seemed to last centuries; where the snow never stopped falling, though sometimes it was more like hale or as wet as rain. Some nights, when he'd open his window to the bitter November wind, he could see the Aurora  
Borealis, its ever changing array of colours and swirls of shapes mystifying, and it never failed to make him think of D, beautiful, but cold; seemingly so close, yet so elusive.  
Too long was spent locked up in warm rooms with warm drinks and interesting books, but when the weather threatened to grow worse, and trap Leon for an indefinite period of time, he moved on.


	4. Chapter 4

This is the last chapter...coming soon, the two different sequels and a few one-shots in the same universe, starting with some Leon/D pr0n to thank you all for sticking with this non-shippy one.

As always, Feedback is not only appreciated, it is craved and worshiped.

Chapter 4

At first sight, Russia was as dreary and unwelcoming as Leon had expected and he hastened to travel through it as quickly as possible. He spent scant hours in the towns he came across moving southwest around the perimeter, but eventually, he had to travel inward. There were desolate villages that filled Leon with an overwhelming sense of despair. There were small cities overrun with crime and poverty that reminded Leon of the city in upstate California where he'd been raised. There were sights lovely, beautiful and sad. Leon stayed in one town in the south for a week. The innkeeper made the most delicious meals, and the British owned bookstore in town had several interesting volumes on Chinese mythology. The woman behind the counter was eager to help Leon search for books that answered his questions, and translate relevant text to English.

After a month winding through the country, south, then west, then northeast again, and back, in an ever-tightening circle, Leon found himself in Moscow. It was there he met Sri. She was Indian and French in lineage, British by birth, and had endured an interesting upbringing—winters in Southern France and India, and summers in England. She was strikingly beautiful—a long fall of dark straight hair, large hazel eyes that tended toward green, and generous curves that she covered conservatively.

Sri was travelling, too, though she never told Leon why, and after the first time she refused to tell him, he never asked again. She may have been searching for years, because she seemed to know everything there was to know about all of Europe and most of Asia, but she didn't have the tired look about her that Leon knew he possessed. She was intimate with Russia, having friends who owned several nightclubs in the larger cities. Through silent agreement, they travelled together. Sri could always be counted on for finding them a cheap place to stay.

Sometimes Leon didn't know what day or time it was. Though he didn't like Russia, he found himself oddly at home there. He and Sri would sometimes spend several days in one club, where Sri's sometimes lover, Marcus, would pour them glass after glass of absinthe. It was during those times, after Leon had tired himself out dancing, that he would go to the private room in the back. The black lights played tricks on his eyes, aided in large part by the absinthe, and Leon would have conversations with his mother, D, and Jill, and a dozen other people unseen for years, or dead for even longer.

It took a month before Leon figured there might be something wrong with the way he kept himself preoccupied, and when he told Sri, she only arched an elegant brow and suggested they move on. To India. India in August was hotter than hell. Maybe even literally. The heat was a palpable, living thing, visible in blurs in the air, manifesting  
in sweat and condensation and Leon couldn't wear sunglasses because they fogged up, but the sun was so bright without them. The pollution was potentially worse than that Leon had experienced in LA, and his lungs protested the abuse.

Only a day in India told him Sri was as different from the women of the country in so many ways. He'd thought of her as conservative before, but upon observing other women, he saw she was quite easy-going. Sri loved India desperately, though she had not been raised there, and delighted in dragging Leon to all sorts of interesting landmarks and museums, in feeding him food that was spicy and sweet all at once, in teaching him bits and pieces of the languages that were her heritage.

The way she spoke every syllable precisely left Leon hanging on her every word, no matter its language. Her voice was high and piercing, and her words ran together like a song. Sri had quite a way with languages, to be sure. She spoke seven fluently, one of them Chinese, and was more than willing to teach Leon. What amazed him most about Sri was that she never asked for anything in return. She provided him with shelter when possible, food always (she had friends in every city they visited, it seemed, who were always good for a meal and a place to stay), she shared her knowledge and she never once asked him what he was searching for so desperately. It wasn't long before Leon loved her dearly, and was glad to be travelling with her, he hoped for however long it took him to find D.

They rode an elephant together through a broad stretch of jungle. There were fantastic shrines to gods D certainly knew on a first name basis. Sri knew all the stories, though they were dizzyingly complex, and told him about this god's affair with that, and the mortal girl who won the heart of the former, and was slain by the latter. As they  
travelled along half buried paths, Sri plucked flowers and wove flowers together and strung them around Leon's neck.

They found the ruins of a statue that must have been D or one of his ancestors in a temple deep in the jungle. Leon spent a long time staring at the familiar face and Sri said nothing, though before they left, she plucked a blossom, and using it as a cup, scooped up water from the basin at D's feet and gave it to Leon to drink. And when he had, she gave him a new name. Amrit, she called him from then on.

They weren't alone in their travels. Two other men both familiar with the jungle, were leading a safari full of rich, white Americans. In late September, the heat was persistent, the bugs more than simply annoying. They spent most their evenings around a large fire, sweltering hot, but safe from any disease carrying insects. There the locals regaled the visitors with all sorts of stories regarding legend and history, from ancient times to British occupation. Leon found himself vaguely annoyed by his countrymen, and kept with Sri, avoiding them best as possible.

"Do you ever wonder?" Sri asked him one night, as they lay in their tent.

"Wonder what?" Leon frowned, pondering the directionless question.

"Oh, that's just it!" Sri said suddenly and sharply, with the slightest tinge of despair in her voice. Her hand brushed his arms oh-so-lightly, like a whisper of silk. He felt her roll onto her side, and knew she was looking at him, though he didn't look at her.  
Sometimes her attention made him uncomfortable, though he knew she didn't desire him. He knew anyway that there was something she wanted from him, though she'd never state it.

"You're not making any sense," Leon muttered and closed his eyes firmly, so he wouldn't have to see her over-bright ones looming above him.

"What are you looking for, Amrit?" Sri asked, after several long moments of  
silence, and her voice was startling in the dark.

Leon considered reminding her that she'd told him to mind his own business when he'd once asked her the same question, but sighed instead. "Stop being a freak," He said, rolling away from her. He heard her open her mouth and take in breath to speak, but she never said a word. Then he heard the sound of her pants sliding against her sleeping bag, and her hair shifting on her pillow. "Wonder what?" He asked again, and hoped he sounded more agreeable.

"You're absolutely impossible," Sri said darkly, but Leon could tell she was amused by him.

"I've been told," He said back, a smile tugging at his lips as in his mind he saw all the times D had pushed Leon's feet off the tea table, all the times D had chastised him for being sloppy, or for smoking, or burping, or for plastering his walls with naked women, when D had finally sighed, calming himself and saying those very words. He fell to sleep watching all his favourite memories of D, and didn't realise Sri had never pursued the answer to her question.

Feeling, feeling like I'm twisted all around  
Wading through an empty life too long

By mid-October, they had moved onto Korea. In December they took a boat to New Zealand. All of January and most of February was spent in the Australian outback with a man who couldn't have reminded Leon of Crocodile Dundee any more.

Sri seemed to be having the time of her life. She smiled more, the longer they travelled, and was more playful and tactile, touching Leon's arm when she spoke to him, wrapping her arm around him while they walked, pressing herself to his side when they stopped to rest. It was doubtful Leon would have held with such things before. He just  
knew that if any of the women he'd considered friends in the past had tried similar things, it wouldn't have gone over well. He just couldn't imagine him being okay with Jill touching him so inappropriately.

In Sydney, Leon treated them to a nice hotel room where they had their first hot showers in months. They ordered room service, watched television, and Leon didn't even blink when Sri began to paint his toenails as he wrote in his journal.

_I feel incredibly absurd right now, and I blame you. I'm happy. I'm happy with Sri. She's needy, and weak, and clingy, and funny and smart. And I'm really happy with her, and I hate it. I don't want her, and I don't want to be merely happy. If you were the one painting my toenails right now, I'd be miserable, and I'd love it. She asks me questions I don't have answers for. I never expect it. But when she does, I know why I haven't found you yet. But I will find you. I'll be ready. She's making me ready._

Sri tapped Leon's foot impatiently with the polish bottle and he looked up from his writing. She pointed imperiously at the phone and said, "Call your brother. He's probably really worried, you know."

Leon frowned at her, uncertain when he'd mentioned having a brother, but knowing she was right. He'd sent postcards whenever he could, but of course Chris couldn't respond in any fashion. It had been over seven months since he'd last spoken with his younger brother. The phone was answered on the first ring by a familiar, anxious voice.

"Hey, kid," Leon said, attempting to sound casual, but aware of the tightness of his voice, the actual physical pain in his throat as he forced the words out.

"Are you coming home? Did you find him?" Chris asked, his words fast and breathless, full of barely suppressed excitement.

A shiver like a shock ran through Leon and he closed his eyes. The light was too bright. "N—not yet."

"Where are you? Your last postcard was from Australia. Dad showed me where on the map. I've got a thumbtack for every place I know you've been," Chris said eagerly, and if Leon had been any less perceptive, he would have missed the tears in Chris' voice.

As it was, he chose to pretend he had, and leave Chris to his pre-adolescent dignity. "Sydney. It's on the coastline. And it's big, like LA. I'll send you a postcard from here, of the big concert-opera hall thing."

"Yeah, we've seen pictures of it in class. We're supposed to do projects about a foreign country for geography, and I'm going to use all the letters you've sent me," Chris told him.

"What uh…what grade are you in, now?" Leon asked, rubbing his face, feeling ancient.

"Sixth. I'm going to a prep school in Manhattan. Mom and dad say it's the best, and I can do whatever I want when I finish. But I told them I just want to be a police officer, too." Chris sounded painfully earnest. Leon heard everything he was meant to in that voice. That Chris was desperate for Leon's approval, and love. For Leon himself.

Leon felt the bed shift and Sri curled against his side. Her breath was hot on his throat, her lashes fluttered against his chin in a butterfly kiss. He swallowed hard, and looked at her, at his journal, and listened to Chris talking about joining the school band. He made his decision effortlessly and immediately, and when he was finished talking to Chris, he hung up and began to pack his bag.

Sri sat up and watched him for a very long time before she asked where he was going.

"I've got enough cash to get a plane ticket to England, at least, and I've got friends there who can help get me the rest of the way," Leon said. He stuffed his journal into his rucksack and didn't look up at Sri.

"To where?" Sri demanded, eyes wide.

Leon turned to her, meeting her eyes purposefully. "Home. New York. Chris needs me." He zipped up his bag. "Holy shit! I'm fucking insane, do you know it, Sri? I've been chasing a freakin' cross dressing jackass for five years. I've missed my brother grow up, I gave up my job, and my life, and I'm never going to find him. And so what if I do? How is it going to be any different? This," he lifted the bag full of nothing but his journals, "this is all bullshit. Not a word of it is true. I haven't learned anything. The only lesson I got was when he left, and I only just now realised it. So fuck it. Fuck him."

Sri's eyes were brimming with tears. Leon grabbed her wrist. "Come with me."

Sri shook her head fervently and twisted her wrist out of his grasp. She looked absolutely frightening, so furious her countenance. "You go," She told him, gasping with hatred. Leon didn't understand it, this sudden change in her personality and behaviour. She didn't even look the same. She looked smaller and older, absolutely drained.

"Go, Amrit," She repeated, with that same imperious tone she'd used a million times before, always bringing a grin to Leon's face. "And if you ever find D, you tell him I hate him."

The name she spoke that he'd never told her hung between them, along with a thousand secrets and lies. He didn't ask her again to join him.

The city was the same, but none of its people were. Leon had reached London with over half the money he needed for a ticket home, and from there he'd managed to scrape the rest together from old acquaintances, just as he'd thought he could. Seven days after speaking with Chris on the phone, he arrived at his Aunt and Uncle's home in Yonkers and rang the doorbell. From that moment on, he'd been aware of the change.

Chris had grown well over a foot, tall for his age, and still slender, but muscled from playing soccer. He looked ever more like Leon, had even grown his hair long like Leon's had been when last they'd seen each other. They spent that first night going through Leon's journals. Chris didn't ask to read what had been written, but he enjoyed seeing the pictures and hearing Leon's stories. They talked for hours, and though Chris was supposed to go to school the next day, his parents never once told the boys to go to bed.

The next day, Chris was allowed to play hookie, and Leon took him into town. Chris was intimidating in his intelligence. Leon didn't know if he'd been so bright when he was the same age, or if he'd been too long away from children, but it didn't seem right that Chris knew so much, that his vocabulary was so large, that he was capable of such  
grand ideas as he was. Leon didn't know his brother at all. But he was ready to know him.

All Leon's roommates had graduated college and had moved on to grad school, marriage, or jobs. Kara was dead, and no one knew that she had been a person, that Leon had talked with her, and joked with her. Even Chris only gave him a sympathetic frown, as though he didn't understand why Leon was so upset.

Leon started working as a Detective for the NYPD, and things were as close to normal as they ever would be again. His partner was a lot older—at least in his late fifties—and he was tough, but he was friendly enough, and he didn't go out of his way to give Leon a hard time. Leon did his job as well as he always had, which was to say, he did an exceptional job. Everyone noticed, and he made friends pretty quickly among the other guys on the force. It was almost like when he'd first become a cop.

A messy but decent apartment downtown was home, and though he was near  
Chinatown, he never strayed there. He saw Chris several times a week, usually after Chris got done with prep school. They'd see a show, or have an early dinner. Leon listened while Chris practiced his violin, helped Chris with his math, answered all Chris' questions regarded Leon's travels, and what it was like to be a cop.

Leon loved his work, of course, and he loved being with Chris. He hadn't even realised how much he liked being around the kid until he'd got back, but now he took every opportunity to spend time with him. Weekends and early evenings were often spent at the Irish pub around the corner from the 13th precinct. Occasionally one of his friends from his first stay in New York would invite him out for dinner, or to a show, and he always had a good time.

It was an existence, and not a bad one, either. Everyday he paused, and looked around him, and wondered where his world had gone, where he had gone, what he had become. He didn't have any answers, but it didn't bother him as much as it had used to. Maybe, someday, he'd seek the answers again, but for now, he was bordering on content, if not happy.

It was an existence.

_Don't ask me how it happened that I realised, or why, because you were weak, and me too. I should be disgusted by my weakness, and I suppose part of me was, a long time ago. I'll be strong enough for the both of us. Someday._

Songs:  
1.) "Superhero" – Ani DiFranco.  
2.) "Amazing" – Aerosmith.  
3.) "Wicked Little Town" – Steven Trask, performing as Tommy Gnosis in  
Hedwig and the Angry Inch.  
4.) "Shriner's Park" – Melissa Etheridge.  
5.) "Feeling" – Slayers Try soundtrack.


End file.
